


Irreversible Hold

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Confessions, Exhibitionism, Fingering, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Pre-Stanford, Secrets, Voyeurism, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: Sam’s secret is burning the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't know how to spit it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- with epilogue inspired by and derived from KarmaScars

[ ](https://imgur.com/H1M5nEd)

When the timing’s right, Sam Winchester will tell his brother everything.

He’s been planning to spill his rumbling guts for weeks. However, that elusive right time is not with their father hovering over the square folding table that passes for a dining room, shouting, “Right now. To the death.”  
  
Sam groans. Dean’s chair squeals across the linoleum as he hops to his feet and cracks his knuckles. He's still chewing when he crouches into a neutral position: feet shoulder-width apart, hands ready.  
  
Legally, this moron is a man. Most of the time, he acts half of Sam’s seventeen years: possesses no verbal filter, and no autonomy. Dean’s life is following his dick’s or his father’s lead.  
  
Sam can refuse to fight. He’s done so successfully once. His dad replaced him and his brother hadn’t talked to him for three days, possibly in part because of the swollen tongue. What if he and Dean both reject their father's ridiculous--   
  
“Come on, Sam,” John shouts. “Let’s go!”  
  
Can-to-microwave ravioli is not the lunch of champions. It is considerably better than no lunch, though. Sam forces in another forkful of the noxious food-like substance, lamenting his lack of viable options. Before he gets around to swallowing, Dean grabs the back of his shirt, yanking Sam from his chair.  
  
For a horrifying ten seconds, Sam strains for air, certain that he’ll die with his brother’s arm around his neck and a morsel of Boyardee’s finest lodged in his windpipe.  
  
Dean shoves Sam to his knees and dives on his back, dislodging the lethal pasta. Sam gags and swallows, never more grateful to breathe. Despite his aching throat, survival instincts and self-defense training kick in. He battles back.  
  
Too late. Dean already has his wrist pinned at the base of his spine. Sam sweeps Dean's ankles, altering his balance, creating space to resume a solid neutral stance.   
  
“Penetrate and score.”  
  
_Yeah, dad. I know._  
  
Sam has only heard that strategic advice since he could walk.  
  
Dean grins, full-on Chesire. He bats at Sam’s face. Bitch taps, as he calls them.  
  
This is Sam’s family. A snapshot of the first seventeen years of his life. Whatever comes next, his origins are irreversible.  
  
Dean curls a slippery left hand around Sam’s neck. He tries this same goddam move every time. The worst part is knowing what’s coming, and still bucking up against Dean’s pressure on his nape. As Sam resists, Dean drops low, grabs Sam’s neck and plows forehead against sternum.   
  
Works every time.  
  
And leaves Sam scrambling on his back like a stunned beetle. Dean smiles and drops his full weight on Sam's shoulders, trying to pin his blades to the floor. Grunting, Sam rolls aside, kicking the table, clattering dishes as he scrambles to his feet. Narrowly avoiding another takedown from behind.  
  
Dean spins. Sam strikes.  
  
For a few miraculous seconds, he holds his big brother in a half Nelson. Dean’s ear is right here. It’s probably safest to confess while he’s debilitated, anyway.  
  
But not with his father here.

Sam has known for weeks, and it’s always some excuse: too tired, too late. The fact is, he’s terrified of Dean's reaction.  
  
Everyone else who’d care already knows = Bobby.

Sam hasn't tried to tell anyone in the chess club, or his fellow theater techies. After all, knowing someone’s name does not a friendship make. The first night they arrive somewhere new, Dean always finds a pack of imbeciles to lead and some girl to screw, but it always takes Sam a while to open up. His family never stays anywhere long enough for that.   
  
Whenever Sam is confronted with the spiky-haired ostrich in the mirror, he totally comprehends why people don’t like him. His own father doesn’t like him, why should anybody else?  
  
The closest thing Sam has to a friend is Dean, who has called him an egghead since he learned to read (at age three). Dean’s also the one who magnets Sam’s perfect report cards to the fridge, ruffling his hair and patting his back like Sam had just taken out a vamp with one machete swing.  
  
When their dad’s not around, Dean is actually a human person and not this grunting-hunting machine. Even then talking to him about anything serious is like a therapy session with Woody Woodpecker.  
  
And now is obviously not the time to try.  
  
Dean growls and punches Sam in the side. _(Illegal)_ Twice is enough. Sam lets go, wincing and stretching as if anything other than time will ease the sharp pain of a traumatized kidney. His merciless asshole brother gives no time to recover. Clasps his hands around Sam’s diaphragm _(also illegal)_ , lifting him from his feet.  
  
There’s no point complaining about Dean’s cheating. Their father doesn’t call penalties, or honor 'whining.'  
  
_It's not like the sport has rules._  
  
Dean drags Sam to his knees, assuming the top position like a dominant dog. In a burst of energy that surprises even him, Sam dives backwards and crushes a moan out of his brother.   
  
“Pin him. Fucking pin him, Sam!”  
  
For a flicker of time, Sam does precisely what his father says. He wraps Dean’s torso in a body scissor: arms firmly around the neck, thighs tight around the middle.  
  
“That’s it,” Dad yells. “Hold!”  
  
As if the old man thinks it’s possible. Almost like he’s on Sam’s side.  
  
How would it be, for once, to see Dean laid out on his insufferable ass? Forced to suck back his trash talk like a mutt lapping up its puke. Sam redoubles his efforts, drawing his muscles taut with a deep growl.  
  
Dean has never beaten their father yet, but he’s come damn close. Pinned him for two seconds. And if that can happen, Sam can conquer Dean.  
  
To the death.  
  
Dean stops fighting, relinquishes for a full second - long enough for Sam to whiff a victory that eludes his tongue.  
  
The problem is when anyone gets the upper hand on Dean, he slips into manic mode. Sam doesn’t have access to the same stores of rage, and when his brother gets like this, he capitulates.  
  
Dean bucks and twists like a cyclone, and without fully understanding the physics of how it happens, Sam lands on his belly with his face and arms flat on the linoleum floor.  
  
Blood pools in his left cheek. Dean sprawls over his back, executing a full Nelson: hands clasped behind Sam’s skull, forcing both of his arms wide. Dean uses his bare feet to spread Sam’s legs as wide as they’ll go.  
  
There might be some seventeen-year-old boy on the planet who could lay in this position without sprouting wood, but his name isn’t Sam Winchester.  
  
Oh, he’s had a million wrestling boners. Doesn’t make it any less mortifying. By any means necessary, Sam keeps his father and brother from seeing. That means accepting his death. Surrender, to his father, is synonymous with death.

Sam stops struggling and mumbles, “You win.

“What’s that?" Dean asks. "Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”  
  
“I concede. You win.”  
  
“That’s right, bitch. Because I always win.”  
  
Dean raises enough for Sam to think it’s over. Instead, his brother snarls and drops a loogie in his ear. Sam screams as if it’s alien larva, even though it’s only his brother’s slimy saliva.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Dean pecks Sam's cheek and springs to his feet with his fists high, bouncing on his toes, hooting in idiot triumph. Sam remains on his belly, still breathing hard from the skirmish. He cleans his ear with his pinky. Licks the wound in his cheek. Waits for his erection to pass.   
  
Meanwhile, the world’s worst winner, goosesteps around his victim’s head, humming that stupid Europe song, The Final Countdown.  
  
“Get up, punk,” Dean nudges Sam’s rib with his toes. “Round two.”  
  
“Buzz off.”  
  
Dean worms his big toe into Sam’s ear. Laughing again at Sam’s ineffectual swatting.  
  
Their father chuckles. “You’re not always going to be able to hold him, you know? He’s not that much smaller than you anymore.”  
  
“That’s right.” Dean plants one foot on the small of Sam’s back. “That’s why I got to keep him in his place.”  
  
“All right, well, you two stay out of each other’s hair, and clean this up,” John says, keys already jangling. “I’m making a run.”  
  
Sam watches Dean watch their father until the door closes behind him. A John Winchester Run can be anything from picking up a case of beer to a full week of complete radio silence.  
They didn’t see their dad carry a duffel bag to the impala, but that doesn’t mean it hadn’t happened overnight or when they weren’t looking. The man can be harder to pin down than one of the phantoms they chase.  
  
“You heard him.” Dean’s toes press Sam’s hurt cheek. “Clean this shit up, loser.”  
  
Sam pushes to his hands and knees, checking his body to be sure it’s under control. Once he’s standing, he surveys the carnage: ravioli and red sauce everywhere, downed paper plates, overturned furniture.  
  
He groans at the mess he never would have made on his own. Left to his plans, Sam would have eaten his lunch and read a book. “Is there a reason you can’t help?”

“Losers clean, Sammy. Victors bathe.”  
  
Dean swaggers from the room, humming again.  
  
Safely alone, Sam adjusts the crotch of his gym shorts and begins tidying up. His belly growls about the intrusion that cut his meal short. There’s only mustard in the fridge and instant coffee in the cabinets. Not even a can of beans.  
  
_Thanks, Dad._  
  
There is also pasta all over the floor. Dean would eat it. No questions asked. Of course, Dean is the missing link.  
  
Sam demolishes the last of the paper towels cleaning the food and its impressive sauce splatters. He rights his chair and slides it back under the table.  
  
Finally finished, Sam sighs and runs a hand over the crewcut his Dad demands. One of these days he’ll grow it down around his ears, long enough to hide thin lips and wide nose. There’ll be nothing the old man can do about it.  
  
Dean doesn’t seem to mind their father’s overzealous clipper sessions. The style suits him. Then again, it’s hard to imagine anything that wouldn’t. Dean makes whatever he’s wearing or doing look good.  
  
And he’s nothing if not predictable. The shower is running. Even the most basic victory warrants celebration. A Dean Winchester shower is a one-man carnival - complete with entertainment and rides.  
  
Sam loiters outside the bathroom, smiling as his brother howls:  
  
_I — don’t want clever_  
_Co - o -_ onversation  
  
Does he realize he’s singing Billy Joel, or does his mind go blank for the half-hour (no exaggeration) he’s under the water? Has he forgotten to uphold his precious macho persona?  
  
Moments like this, Sam’s not even ashamed to be in love with his brother. He’d happily shout it through a bullhorn from the roof of the Impala while they cruise down Main Street.

Every fragment of my heart belongs to this unbearable idiot.  
  
Billy Joel’s on to something. The nonsense trash-talking and Dean's dedication to their father’s war: he wouldn't be the same fucked up, flawless guy without them. 

With his chest warm and eyes aglow, Sam nudges open the door.  
  
He enters the fogged-up bathroom as if it were a sanctuary. With his lower lip between his teeth, he gingerly closes the toilet and sits. He sips a breath of steam, heart tripping behind his ribs.  
  
Sam remains quiet until his brother sings the final riffs of the song. Dean launches right into Dolly Parton's Dumb Blonde.  
  
_When you left, you thought I’d sit_  
_An’ you thought I’d wait_  
_An’ you thought I’d cry_  
  
Covering his smile, Sam whispers low, his voice drowned out by shower and Dean’s singing.

“I love you.”  
  
“What?” Dean pulls back the curtain and peeks, revealing squinty eyes and a head covered in suds.  
  
“Nothing.” Sam adds, “All clean, your highness.”  
  
“Fine work, knave.”  
  
Sam chuckles. Mist collects in the peach fuzz below his nose. His prick swells again, but he doesn’t leave. He chews the flayed skin in his cheek and waits.  
  
“You know,” Dean says, “You’re getting too old for this.”


	2. Chapter 2

That’s exactly what he said last time. 

Sam doesn’t do it often anymore. Hasn’t in over a year.

Eight years ago, The Peeping Sam Sessions began, totally by accident. Just like now, Dean had whipped Sam's ass (that time at target practice) and was treating himself to a shower. Unfortunately, the bathroom was the only safe place to retreat and hide shamed tears. Sam's father is an even worse fascist about crying than poor shooting.

Dean was perfect. Did everything right. Sam was a bony waste of skin. 

Dad never said it that way. He crowed and clapped Dean’s back whenever he shot down a can. Hung his head and winced at Sam’s pitiful attempts. So, never mind that Dean was in the bathroom. The shower curtain provided more privacy than they usually had. Back then, they often shared a bad, although Dean protested, further trouncing Sam’s tender feelings. 

He sat on the toilet, wiping his nose until Dean’s motions caught his eye. Lo-and-behold, Sam only needed to sit back a few inches to watch his brother touching himself. Not just touching, but stroking slow and smooth while Sam sat there, panting and frantic that he might be caught, but physically unable to blink, let alone get up and walk away.

Dean's hand jerked faster and faster until it blurred. He groaned and dropped his head back into the stream. (Always showered way hotter than Sam could stand it).

Sam, who should not be there, staring at his brother’s half-hard pecker. Sam, who should have left the moment he saw what Dean was doing. Sam, whose own weiner was now rock-solid in his pants. 

“Did you just watch that, perv?”

All Sam’s blood rushed to the surface where it burned bright as a cooked crab. Dean frowned at first and Sam braced himself for the worst. In his head, Dean was already calling their father, telling them what a weirdo his youngest son was.

In reality, Dean’s enticing mouth slanted into a smirk. “Want me to do it again?”

Eight years later, Sam perches on a different toilet, but his brother hasn't changed much, at least not on the inside. Sam has grown straight up, all limbs and knobby joints. He's even an inch or two taller than Dean, but lacks the muscle definition and grace.

Sam digs his tongue into the wound in his cheek, aching to touch himself. Aching to tell his brother everything. 

Dean pushes back the curtains enough for a few errant drops to puddle on the tiles. Enough to grant an unobscured view.

He’s a natural performer: into himself, enjoys being watched. Every movement is slow and deliberate. He lathers his chest, pinches his nips, bites his lip. He draws down his high-saluting dick and lets it go - producing a wet thwap on his stomach. 

Dean missed his calling, or may yet have a future in erotic entertainment: his face, body, voice and his thick, eight-inch cock. He can even dance. Or at least he rolls his hips in a way that makes Sam want to die. 

There are rules to this game:   
Sam’s not allowed to touch himself or make any noise.   
They’re both supposed to pretend Dean is by himself, (does anybody slap their own ass when they’re alone in the shower?)

Even Dean laughs at that and flicks off the show as easily as he turned it on.

He closes his eyes, rinses his face under the spray with both hands - like a shampoo commercial, or an ad for running water, or anything. Sam would buy whatever he’s selling: a lifetime supply and two extra.

Physical craving worms from his groin to his stomach to his throat to his dry mouth. Then it drops and settles again in his crotch.

Since this began, Sam has honored the rules he invented. He never dared do more than watch. He never muttered a thank you, or God, or why are you so fucking perfect? Always scrambled from the room when it was over. He'd find his own quiet spot (ironically, often a closet). There, he would chafe the hell out of his stiff, little wood. 

What makes any day different from another? Perhaps, it’s the ticking bomb of Sam’s encroaching future driving this new urgency. This sense that he has to do something.

Dean's biceps and triceps strain. His tight glutes and hamstrings clench as he drives his cock into his fist. His tongue pokes between his lips as he alternates between closed eyes and a lurid stare at his own handiwork. All set to a soundtrack of the same infuriating rhythmic grunts that accompany his sparring and workouts.

Dean has never stated any rules. Doesn't mention the sessions at all. He must be waiting for Sam to make a move. How could he act this way if he didn't want it? All these years, Sam has been a coward. Dean would tell him to grow a pair.

Drawing blood on his bottom lip, Sam stands, throws back the curtain and climbs in. Before Dean’s incredulous face can become a protest, Sam presses his brother back against the tile. He hooks a hand around his neck, cups his ear and gives no chance to escape the bruising kiss. He pours the essence of every anguished evening and sleepless night into this one desperate act.

Their father is gone, so the worst would be Dean pushing him away. And that isn't happening.

Sam was twelve years old when Dean when to his first school dance. Dad exchanged a beer for his conquest story (third base, dude). Sam sat on the floor with his back to the sofa, rereading the same sentence over and again. Forbidding himself to cry. Narrowly resisting the urge to hurl himself into the crackling fire. When he was sure he would run away bawling like a huge Nancy, he’d carried his book to the bathroom and cried on the pages. 

How many times has Dean ‘scored’ in the last five years? Sam’s lost count although that information is public record. His brother has never been modest about anything. Dean might as well sew badges on a sash like an oversexed Boy Scout. Surely, he’s earned hundreds for blow jobs on the first date. Several dozen for ‘homeruns.’ Girls are just another sport, and Dean dominates wherever he plays.

Sam shakes away that thought to focus on the present moment. None of those girls is in the shower right now. It’s Sam with the hot water spitting on his back, and Dean’s warm tongue in his mouth, the soft skin on his firm chest. Stubble tickling his palm. 

Nipples pebbled, despite the steam. Dean grips his skull, drawing him closer while Sam explores the valley between Dean's ridged abs, his deep-set navel, the soft trail that leads to - 

Dean catches Sam's wrist. “That’s enough.”

It’s nowhere near enough. It’s barely a start. Dean pats his cheek (bitch tap) and grins. 

“You wacky little shit.”

He climbs from the shower and wraps a towel around his waist, leaving Sam drenched, and hard, and panting like a new sub-species: part racehorse, part inexcusable freak.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam tosses the wet clothes into the corner, pulls on dry underwear, and flops face-down on his pillow. Past the point of tears, his entire body is leaden and numb. All those years of watching and not touching were torture. This is a gut-twisting, soul-sucking torment from Hell. 

He crawled out on a limb as far as any sane person could go, and just kept stepping. He’d kissed his brother, for Christ’s sake. Not talked about it. Not asked first. But full-on Frenched him in the shower and then ride to grope his meat.

These are not the calculated actions of a college graduate. A scholar. A thinker. It's animal behavior. Brutish. Luckily, Dean ended it before things spiralled out of hand. If it had been up to Sam….   
If Sam had his way…  
He clamps down on the dirty thoughts. But how can he control his dreams? How to stop waking up sweaty and stiff in a bed three feet from the source of the problem. Dean’s scent, his snores, his sleep-warmth tainting the air, seeping into Sam’s skin. 

_No excuse, sicko._

Everyone knows incest is illegal and disgusting. Dean could have broken his face, but he had mercy. If Sam can smother himself long enough to pass out, tomorrow his brother will pretend it never happened.

An hour later, his head is under the pillow, but he’s neither asleep nor dead. Just wishing for one or the other.

A light knock, the squeaky door.

“Hey, weirdo.” Dean slaps Sam’s calf. “You know, your feet are fucking huge. You still growing?”

As suspected, the ‘nothing happened, we’re cool’ tactic. It could be worse. Dean could jam a hot knife between Sam’s ribs.

“Sam.”

Eyes squeezed, Sam shakes his head. Wills his brother to leave. This Samtrum will never fade.

“Sammy. Look at me.”

That’s all Sam needs - to gaze into Dean’s expressive eyes, stare at his sumptuous mouth. Better to gouge out his own eyes. The bed dips as Dean sits, drops a warm hand on Sam’s ankle.

“What is it you want?” He asks. “I mean, I can’t promise…”

Dean's back in the same faded jeans. Sans shirt. Why fully dress when there are people to taunt? Late-afternoon sun spills through the window, gilding the statue of Adonis at the foot of Sam's bed.

“You want to play?” Dean's brow lifts. “Is that it?”

Of course. Sam should have known his preternaturally horny brother would be on board to fool around. As long as that’s all it is.

Should Sam point out it’s not like that for him? Can he demand that Dean love him exactly the same way, or forget it? Does anyone have that kind of willpower? Maybe somewhere there’s a guy who could say I’ll only kiss you if it means forever. And no one else.

Sam will take whatever’s offered.

He nods, silently begging his brother to devour him. To unravel and knit him together again.

“Come here,” Dean says. “Just a little, all right?”

Sam wipes his face and scoots to the end of the bed. Dean wraps an arm around his head, pressing Sam’s cheek to his solar plexus. He rakes his fingers over Sam’s scalp.

“Tell me exactly what you want, you big fucking baby.”

Rather than admit to wanting everything, Sam whispers, “Anything.”

Like this kiss. Not the caveman approach he took in the shower. Dean’s soft lips brushing his own. Tongue gently vying for entry. Clearly not Dean's first bullrun.

_~ It’s all right, baby girl. I got you ~_

Sam shoves that thought away. It doesn’t matter what Dean does with them.

His older, stronger, better-in-every-way brother eases him onto his back. With a hand on either side of his head, Dean hovers, kissing him into a pliant puddle of want.

Sam melts into the sensation of firm hands on his shoulders, his arms. Dean is watching for signs of distress, so Sam bites his lip to stop tears that could be misconstrued. He turns aside, costing himself the view but unable to watch Dean explore the skeletal planes of his chest, the protruding pelvic bones.

Lungs burning, Sam sates them on tiny sips of air, tries not to squirm beneath nips and licks.

“You like that?”

_What kind of stupid question..._

“Yeah?” Dean smirks. “How about this?”

It's a well-known fact that Sam does not like to be tickled. Dean’s exploration of his armpits constitutes a grave breach of trust and decorum. In return, Sam curls up like a pill bug and lets loose a powerful kick that knocks his brother off the bed.

Dean stands, clutching his chest. “Shit.”

Sam apologizes profusely until Dean comes for his feet, holding an ankle in one hand, grinning and wiggling his fingers mere inches from Sam’s sole.

“Don’t.”

Rather than tickle, Dean kisses his instep. Then he slurps in the big toe. It's magic. Sam’s spine catches fire and his hips levitate.

His sensual checklist currently consists of:  
1\. two girls kissed  
(three, if you counted Jenny Perkins, which Sam doesn’t because she kissed him while he was drunk.)  
The other two were during Truth or Dare.

2\. A handjob (sort of)  
Tiffany Wannamaker palmed his crotch and asked if Sam wanted her to touch it. He’d very politely said no, thank you and worried for two weeks what she would tell everyone else. Then the. Winchesters were in the wind and it didn't matter anyway.

His fantasies about Dean are bottomless.  
Well, not bottomless. Sam is always the bottom.

Endless.

With the amount of cum he’s spilled imagining his brother’s hands, or his tongue, or his cock, it never once occurred to Sam that he would climax while his brother sucks his toe.

Shaking, whimpering, dampening the inside of his shorts, Sam presses with both hands, as if he’s trying to keep his prick from flying away. 

Dean releases his foot. “You just come?”

Despite Sam's best efforts, a tear slips free and lingers in his lashes.

Dean wrestles out of his jeans. Nothing underneath, yet he calls Sam, “Dirty little fucker.”

He peels Sam’s briefs to his knees and holds his boner.

Sam’s mouth falls open. Still tumescent as if he’d never dirtied his briefs. Dean’s tongue peeks out to watch as he slow-glides Sam’s pre-jiz up and down the shaft, over the head. Killing him softly.

“Hell of a nice dick, Sammy.”

It’s a hell of a weird compliment. Sam screws up his face. “Did you ever...?”

“What? Suck one? No.”

“You ever want to?”

Dean stares into the eye of Sam’s rod, possibly answering telepathically.

“Dean?”

“Shut up.”

With that, he opens his mouth and engulfs Sam’s entire (hell of a nice) dick. Sunburst. Instantly epileptic, Sam convulses, his ass clenching, hands clinging to Dean’s skull. He shoots again. This time, he scores, voiding himself of seed, marrow, air and sanity.

Dean pulls off abruptly and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for, Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you crying?”

“No.” Sam covers his face with his hands, lips trembling.

“I knew this was a bad idea.” Dean tries to stand.

Sam catches his arm. “No. I just… I’ve wanted this for so long. And you teased and teased …”

“I never… You thought I was teasing you?”

“You were teasing me, Dean. Letting me watch you.” Not to mention the girls. “You were definitely teasing me.”

“No. Sammy, no.” Dean crawls up and lays a cum-flavored kiss on Sam's quivering mouth. “Never.”

“Will you fuck me?”

“What?”

“I want —”

“Whoa, Sam. That’s…” Dean tries again to flee.

Can't budge while Sam grips him tight in an illegal body hold.

“Fucking let go, Sam.” It's a tough hold to crack. “You win, all right. I mean…Isn’t that like a crime against nature or something? … Dad is probably—”

“Halfway to Utah,” Sam sighs. “Please. I… I just want to feel you.”

“Jesus, Sammy. Why are you so weird?”

Just like with Neanderthal kiss, he’s pushed too far. If Sams let go, Dean will run and never look back.

“Forget it. I'm stupid. Just stay with me, please.”

He buries his face in his brother’s neck and clings for dear life. Dean’s hands hang limply at his sides. Whatever he's thinking is always legible on his face. Sam can’t even muster the courage to look up and read his expression.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam wakes from his nap with strong arms around him and a perpetual kiss on his brow. He holds his breath and then tries to exhale slowly, as if he’s still sleeping.

“You’re not slick,” Dean scolds but doesn’t move. “What the hell were you dreaming about, Thumper?”

Sam doesn’t recall, doesn’t answer. Squeezes his brother tighter. 

“You know, I don’t think it’s possible to spend every night in the same room with somebody and not think about it, Sam. Thinking ain’t the same as doing.”

Still, Sam doesn’t try to reply. What's he supposed to say?

“You ever been with anybody, Sammy?”

“Yes.”

Dean pinches his chin. Forces eye contact. “Why are you lying to me?”

“No,” Sam confesses.  
  
Dean makes his furrowed-brow thinking face. “You know there’s no going back from some things.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about. And it's gonna hurt.”

“How do you know?”

Dean blinks. “Because you’re asking me to stick this...”

He guides Sam’s hand to his crotch.

Sam freezes in a moment of reverent shock. He is holding his brother’s cock. The sight of it is familiar, but touching is a whole new experience. They're roughly the same length, but Dean is girthy. His points for the sky when erect, whereas Sam’s hangs in a kind of dismal way, no matter how aroused he gets. 

“You want this up your poop chute,” Dean continues, ever the poet. “That’s what you’re asking me to do, right?”

Sam nods and clears his throat.

“What’s the last thing you had in your ass, Sam?”

“Finger?”

Now that Sam's got permission, he's not letting go. He watches between them as his hand strokes Dean carefully, forest fire breaking loose beneath his skin.

Dean chuckles. “This ain’t a finger, man.”

“I noticed.” 

“You’re crazy.”

Sam doesn’t disagree. Just adds. “I’m ready.”

“You’re not fucking ready. You’re seventeen.”

“So?”

“You have lube?”

In all the videos he’s watched, there’s been no lube. Only toned, flawless men, like his brother, pounding each other. He can’t stomach the twinks. Can’t fathom why anyone would even look at the type of scrawny body he’s trapped in.

“Condoms?”

“I don’t want a condom,” Sam says. 

Dean’s mouth opens and snaps shut again. “That’s…”

“Do you always use a condom?”

“Hell, yeah. Every fucking time. You can’t just go around sticking it into people without protecting yourself. Didn’t Dad ever teach you that?”

“I don’t talk about this stuff with Dad.”

“Well, didn’t I teach you?”

“Yeah, I know, Dean. I still have the ones you gave me. But this isn’t… people. I want to feel you, not latex.”

Dean tenses again, stomach muscles twitching as Sam continues to fondle him. Slowly, so it lasts. 

“Please?”

“Fuck. Maniac.” Dean squeezes his eyes tight and ruts into Sam’s hand. “Turn over.”

Sam rushes to obey, but Dean is faster, flipping him onto his belly. He spits into his palm, smears the head of his cock and crawls into position. 

_\- Holy Mother of God -_

Dean is going to rip him into two jagged strips. Sam grips the sheets struggles to steady his breath. Chokes back his whimper.

“Shit, that’s too tight. God.” Dean sits back on his ankles, frowning at Sam’s ass like it’s a jigsaw puzzle. He paws Sam’s cheeks apart and circles a finger on his hole. “Jesus Christ. How do you fucking fart?”

Again, with the poetry.

“Sheesh.” Dean shakes his head. “You finger this?”

Sam nods and hoists his hips a few centimeters to grant permission. A silent petition.

“You’re being a little slutty right now.”

The accusation ignites Sam’s nerves and he presses his ass against his brother’s chest. 

Dean clutches his thighs to keep from being tossed from the bed. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam buries his face in the mattress. 

Dean slaps Sam’s ass. “You a slut, Sammy?”

“Don’t tease me.”

Dean wets his middle finger in Sam's mouth. Uses it to massage gentle circles. Sam moans and writhes until his hole swallows to the first knuckle. His mouth wrenches open and won’t close, even after Dean stops pressing. He’s coated in sweat and shivering. This is not the same body he awoke in this morning.

“You all right up there, Lambchop?”

“What… oh.”

There may be puppet humor in Sam’s future for all time.

Dean pulls out a bit and continues the onslaught. “You’re telling me this doesn’t hurt?” 

“It’s good.”

“You lie to me again, I’m out of here.”

“It’s just intense.”

“That’s code for pain.”

“Dean, I want it. I’m not going to change my mind.”

Sam shoves back until there’s no more finger to take. It burns like hell, but he doesn’t hold in his whimpers or try to stop shuddering. 

“I want it.”

“All right,” Dean says. “Whore.”

He extracts his finger and Sam mentally prepares himself for two. He’s never been brave enough to try that alone. Instead of the painful stretch, he receives the nerve lightning of Dean’s tongue. 

“Oh, my God!”

Dean holds his cheeks apart, jiggling them. “We got to open you up.”

He licks, sucks, prods and stretches until Sam is a pool of writhing, moaning teenager literally begging to be fucked. 

“Just wait, little slut. You’ll get it.” Dean slaps his ass. “When I say you’re ready.”

The teasing is unabashed now. Dean is using Sam’s body as kindling in a sky-high primal fire so he can skip around the flames. He kneads, palms Sam’s ass, holding him wide open and spitting into his core.

“Look at this shiny, wet pussy, Sam. You do want to be your big brother’s bitch, don’t you?”

Sam stopped dealing in words many lifetimes ago. He’s all moans and helpless whining. 

“Tell me you want it.”

Dean expects the impossible. Speech requires thought requires more than glowing neurons.

“Say it, Sammy.” He lays over Sam’s back, humping, taunting, promising to put it in if Sam only asks for it by name. 

In a fit of desperation, Sam blows the words between gritted teeth. “Dean, fuck me, please.”

Agony.

The stretching burn, the snail’s pace - it’s all torture.   
Both brothers groan and swear. Dean hooks an arm around Sam's neck, cutting off the air supply. 

“Does it hurt? And don’t lie.”

“Yes.”

Sam hisses. His toes curl. He clutches the sides of the bed. Rather than stop, Dean tears into him.

“Dean. Ow. Fuck.”

The 'ow' portion of that statement goes unheeded as Dean grinds like he’s making pulp.

“Oh, God."

Sam asked for this. His brother ratchets up the speed and the ferocity.

“God, Dean.”

“Should I stop?”

“No, no. Please, no."

Dean's making a friction fire in Sam’s ass, that's all. He rams a minute longer, roars in his ear, muscles taut as tripwire.

“Fuck.”

He trembles for a moment. Stops and starts again. 

“Are you—”

“Shut up.” Dean spasms, pauses. Another aftershock follows. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

“What was—”

“Sam, shut. Up.” 

Dean shivers once more. Then he collapses onto his back beside his boneless, freshly excavated brother and hoots like a teakettle. 

“Well, good God, Sammy-boy.”

While Sam prepares to declare his unceasing love, Dean drums on his sweaty shoulder, crowing:

Here I am (dunnuh, dunnuh)  
Rock you like a hurricane


	5. Chapter 5

Two minutes later, the song ends with Dean staring at the ceiling, ghostly quiet.

“Dean?”

His attempt at a smile falls flat and lands as his scrunched thinking face. 

“Are we—”

“That was fucked up.”

“No.” Sam clutches his arm. 

“I just butt-fucked my little brother. So, yeah. ”

“Dean, please.”

“…who’s going to be sore for a week.”

“Good.”

Dean’s brow knits, smooths. He shakes his head and finally says, “God, you really are a slut.”

Sam chuckles, buries his face on Dean’s shoulder and mutters, “Yours.”

“I need to clean up,” Dean says, rolling aside to open the top drawer of Sam's bedside table. “You got something in here so I can wipe your shit off my cock?”

This is it. The moment of truth. It has to be now. While Dean is as soft and closer than he’s ever been. The magic is already fading.

“Grab that letter, please,” Sam says and holds his breath. 

He’d left the envelope there counting on his brother’s nosiness. It’s strangely disappointing to learn that Dean doesn’t mess with his stuff. 

But now, Dean draws out the envelope. “What is this?”

Sam gnaws his lip.

“Care of Bobby?”

Care of Robert Singer, the only person Sam knows with a permanent address. Unlike any of the Winchesters, Bobby is also halfway sane. Last summer when Sam went out there to Sioux Falls under the guise of advanced training, he’d done the damn training, but also spent every evening talking his father’s friend into supporting his Exodus. Even Bobby admitted that hunting is John Winchester's dream. It's Dean’s inheritance. Sam is the spare and can be spared. 

“Stanford?” Dean asks. “What is this, Sam?

A few seconds more and it’ll be out. Dean will know everything Sam has concealed under his skin like a crawling, itching parasite. The first bit went far better than Sam would have dared to hope. One more confession and then nothing between them but clear air. 

Dean reads it for himself. He folds the letter and slips it back into the envelope. 

“This real?”

Like Sam would fake an acceptance letter. Their dad is the master forger. Dean, too, for that matter. It's a surprise he can remember his real name.

“Full ride.” 

Dean sits up, places the envelope on the table and wipes his mouth.

“Dean?”

He stands. Collects his clothes.

“Come on.”

Walks from the room without another word

“Talk to me.”

Without looking back. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sam’s turn now, to lie on his back, searching the ceiling for clarity or answers or anything useful. The floor is rising to meet the roof and crush him in between.  
  
1\. Miracle of miracles: Yes! Dean will fuck him, although right from the beginning he’d called it play. We all know what that means.  
2\. No, Dean is not happy for Sam, or proud of him, or even willing to acknowledge that he earned a full scholarship to one of the best schools in the country  
3\. Worth it? Inconclusive

What is clear is that Sam is struggling to breathe, like invisible, inevitable Fate has both fists around his throat. It not too late to tap out. The letter is an invitation, not a mandate. It’s offering him an alternative to a future of monsters and violence and his dad’s disappointed glare.

Dean is never going to look at him the same way again. Now that Sam’s given new meaning to the word, bitch. It’s true. He is. That’s why he doesn’t argue when Dean says it.  
And Sam has never been apart from him for more than a few nightmarish days. He’s not even sure he won’t get to the west coast, tuck his tail between his legs and scurry on home to the safety of what he knows. 

But God, doesn’t he have to try to escape?

The longer Sam lays here, the crueller the ice becomes in his veins. He's damn near shuddering. This is no time to tap out. It's time to fight for what he wants. He pulls on his third pair of underwear today and follows Dean into the kitchen.

There’s already an empty beer bottle into the sink. His head is tilted back, sucking down another. Sam plants himself in his brother’s face, where he can’t be ignored. 

"You have to listen to me."

“Leave me alone, Sam. I don’t know what this was …“ Dean waves his bottle at nothing. “I just know you’re fucking with my head.”

“No.”

“Yeah, you are. Some kind of those experiments. Socio-psycho-something. Has to be.”

“Dean—”

“First, you ask me to … Then, you tell me you’re leaving. You’re obviously…”

He shakes his head and finishes his beer in one long swig. Sam flinches as the bottle shatters against its fallen comrade in the sink. Dean cracks open a third. 

Sam had hoped his brother would come up with the idea on his own. Maybe given more time, he would, but in a mild panic, Sam spits it out, “I want you to come with me.”

Dean swallows and squints. “What? To California?”

“Yeah.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Fix cars. Whatever.”

“And Dad?”

“No.” Sam takes a cautious step closer. “I want to be with you.” He slides his arms around his brother’s neck. “We can’t have that with Dad there.”

Dean plants his palm on Sam’s sternum and shoves him against the fridge.

“Fucking leave me alone.”

He leaves the motel room shirtless, shoeless and brandishing a beer bottle. Sam hovers at the door for a moment and then follows, wearing only his boxers. If there was any doubt, Winchesters are what's referred to in polite company as trash. Inescapable truth. They're all going to smell it at Stanford.

Bigger fish is getting away. He tromps barefoot down the cracked concrete, grabs his brother’s arm. 

“Dean, please.” 

Sam skips ahead, turns to walk backwards and confront Dean.

“Back the fuck away from me, Sam.”

It worked before. Sam launches himself forward, intending to kiss Dean, in plain view of God and all the world. Glass smashes around his feet as Dean throws down the bottle and strikes Sam's jaw like a meteor. He lands on his ass with just enough time to cover his face as Dean kneels to punch him again.   
And again.

Shards bite into his thighs and back. His brother rains fury from above. Sam is only aware of pain, and not the surface kind.

Without warning, the barrage of blows stops. He opens his eyes, and Dean is floating backwards, limbs flailing, screaming nonsense and threats. 

Who knows when he arrived, but their father drags Dean back toward the motel room leaving Sam in a mess of brown glass shards. Bleeding and gutted. Months later, he’ll recall how this moment was a precise preview of how feels to board a bus to San Francisco, alone. 


	7. Epilogue

Brainy as Sam is, he never knew that for the first month he was in Stanford, he had his own personal guardian angel. For the first time in his life, Dean defied his father’s direct orders. Instead of cutting Sam off, he hot-wired a red Ford pickup and gunned the thousand miles from Alamosa, Colorado without stopping for more than gas, burritos and to piss. 

From an undetectable distance, Dean patrolled the bay area, monitoring for supernatural activity, exterminating the few vamps who plagued the campus disguised as co-eds. He watched Sam walk alone to classes, sit by himself beneath a tree with a book and a pear.

Every time sentimental weakness tempted Dean to approach, the reasons not to shouted from inside his skull. First, they both deserved the separation, like a pair of brawling brats on opposite ends of a blacktop. If Sam was suffering half as bad as Dean, there were narrowly averted crying spells and meaningless sex marathons…

Then again, Sam probably dealt with his grief with hours of reading and studying that he’d be doing, anyway. There was no way to tell if Sam thought about him at all. Maybe he was just glad to be free of the Winchester curse. 

If Dean had approached him doing that month, here's what would have happened. They were just an hour outside of San Fran. Without the threat of their father’s surveillance. Dean was going to wind up living like lovers with his little brother. Even if nobody else found out, he’d know. Sam would know. Fucked up as their family is, that's going too far.

Even more than that, what kept Dean away was Sam’s choice. He left because nothing else would have been right for him. 

Dean is a hunter. There was never any question. But before that, he’s a big brother, and his purpose in life is taking care of Sammy. 

He drove away, voice cracking as he sung Sting's mantra:

If you love somebody

If you love someone...

-

More than a year later, when the unsuccessful hunt for a pack of Urayuli brings Dean within 20 miles of Stanford, he skulks onto the campus and idles in the parking lot. He can’t beg Sam to come back, even though he’s drunk-rehearsed that speech for months.

The first sight of his brother surrounded by his nerdy peers unhinges Dean’s jaw. Sam’s talking with his hands, towering over every one of them, shining like a burning bush. They all laugh at something he says (probably philosophy humor). Sam shakes the hair from his face, looks up and their eyes meet. 

This was a bad idea. He's probably still pissed. Has every right to be. Dean never asked him to stay. Made the last couple months of Sam's time at home hellish - hardly looked at him (as if he wasn't punishing himself, too). He all but sided with their father's ultimatum. If you go, don't come back.

As emotionally obtuse as Sam thinks Dean is, even he knows it was self-defense on both of their parts. The kid basically took a splatter shit on their entire way of life. What their dad doesn’t know is that Sam had eviscerated him first. Then, Dean returned the favor. 

Dean flushes and considers his escape route as this bigger, brighter version of his brother breaks away from his posse and offers a goofy wave. Dean stuffs his hands into the pockets of his unfashionably ripped jeans. People are definitely watching now, and Sam’s no longer walking. He's jogging over. Grinning, hair rippling in the wind. 

It’s not too late to run. 

Dean stands his ground and lets Sam crash into him like a Pacific wave. Long arms surrounding him, chest and back solid muscle. Dean’s flush rises a few hundred degrees until Sam lifts him from his feet.

“All right, Sasquatch. Put me down.” 

He steps back, pretending it’s for the full view of Mount Sam, but it’s more to get a full grip on himself.

“What the hell are they feeding you? What’d you do, eat my brother?”

Sam chuckles and brushes his hair from his eyes, pins it behind his ears. There will be a talk about the hair. It’s fucking distracting, in the worst way. 

“What… How…” the genius stutters. 

“You know,” Dean says. “In the neighborhood.”

Sam huffs a laugh, turns to regard his friends. One of them is a pretty Asian girl who hasn’t stopped watching Sam’s back. She probably loves him. She’d be crazy if she didn’t. 

“I have a class,” Sam says. Then he leans close and whispers. “But… my roommate’s in Maui.”

“Oh, well, I, uh... I can’t exactly—”

“You didn’t come all this way to tell me you can’t stay.”

“No. I came to...”

Why did Dean come? What does he want?

All kinds of things he can't have. But he’s never been a complainer. He’s a soldier. This is his life, and his brother’s place in it has diminished and changed. That’s out of his hands.

The one thing Dean can do before he leaves is take Sammy to the coast. Doesn’t say much. Not much to say. After a ten minute internal pep-talk, he kisses Sam once or twice. Swears each one is the last. It doesn’t matter what Dean wants. But for a few moments, he takes what he needs. Gets hold of Sam’s warm skin and hangs on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and for your comments.  
> Feel free to be in touch on FB or email:  
> BenLMooreFanFic@gmail.com


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